“Shall we make a rush at them, and stun them with the hoes?”
Bart shook his head.
“Mary’s too clever,” he whispered back. “She’s well hidden, and will not stir.”
“If that Irish beast raises his musket I must go at him,” whispered Abel, who was trembling from head to foot.
“Hold up, man. She heer’d every word, and won’t stir.”
“Silence, there. No talking!” cried the overseer.
“Let the poor divils talk, sor,” said the soldier. “Faix, it’s bad enough to put chains on their legs; don’t put anny on their tongues.”
“If I get you down,” thought Abel, “I won’t kill you, for that.”
“Against orders,” said the overseer, good-humouredly. “Well, can you see anything stirring?”
“Not yet, sor; but I hope I shall. Bedad, I’d be glad of a bit o’ sport, for it’s dhry work always carrying a gun about widout having a shot.”